


Royal Expectations and the Problems Therein

by Jendy



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A Bit of Dwarven Culture Porn Eventually, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, And Also Some Hobbit Culture Porn, And Maybe Some Actual Porn If the Mood Hits Me, And let his hair flow into the wind, Author Also Has No Idea What She's Doing, Author does as she pleases too, Because Thorin Has The Dumb, Bilbo Does As She Pleases, Bilbo Makes The First Move, Can't Stop Won't Stop THE TAGS, Dwarves, F/M, Female Bilbo, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Has Anybody Called Their Fem!Bilbo "Willow" Yet?, He wants to stay single, Hobbits, How Many Tropes Must An Author Trope Down Before It Is Truly A Trope, In Which The Rating Will Go Up, Majestic Thorin, Marriage of Convenience, Taggity Tag, There Are So Many Kinds Of Fem!Bilbo and I Love Them All, Thorin Doesn't Want To Get Married, Thorin Is A Delicate Flower, Thorin Is Also An Idiot, Thorin Is In Looooooove, Tropers Gonna Trope, Tropes, Tropiest Trope Ever To Trope, Tropin' The Hell Outta That Trope, Unbeta'd, fem!Bilbo, these tags are ridiculous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-03-28 22:52:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3872740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jendy/pseuds/Jendy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin is the King Under the Mountain, and he does not want to get married to some random noble Dwarrow or Dwarrowdam he doesn't know or cannot tolerate.</p>
<p>He just wants to get through his days and enjoy his evenings with his closest friend, his dearest Burglar. (The meals she cooks him are just a plus.)</p>
<p>Is that too much to ask?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

***

 

   

                Thorin is exhausted.

 

                He’d always heard “heavy is the head that wears the crown,” but he’d never understood the true meaning of its weight till it was placed on his brow.

 

                Having just spend an entire day in open court, hearing grievance after grievance from the new citizens of Erebor (most of which are petty and could have been resolved without the aid of the King), he is ready to drop. Were he not obligated by the crown on his head, he would have left the squabbles to Balin, who now presides as his head advisor.

 

                The walk to his rooms has always been a long trek, but it feels impossible when open court has been in session. His boots feel heavier, his back aches terribly, and there is a pounding ache developing behind his eyes. The closer he gets to his rooms, to his bed, the more he lets his exhaustion show, so by the time he makes it to his door, his shoulders are slumped and he has to take a moment to rest his head against the door before dredging up the energy to push the heavy obstacle open.

 

                His sigh echoes into the room, and to his dying day he will deny with every bit of his being that he did not- as it would later be described to the amusement of his Company (and his sister, oh gods, his sister)- squeak like frightened rabbit and clutch at his heart when a familiar voice sounds out of nowhere, “That is a woeful sound if ever I’ve heard one.”

 

                When he is done Not Squeaking, he spins to face the door to his private kitchen, where a sweetly grinning lady Hobbit is leaning against the jamb.

 

                He tries to gain back his “kingly mien” (his Burglar’s words, not his own) but as is frequently the case when in the presence of Willow “Will” Baggins, he fails. Utterly.

 

                “I…” He clears his throat, briefly. “I am not ‘woeful’, my dear Burglar. I am… ‘concerned.’”

 

                A tinkling laugh is her response and he rolls his eyes as he walks deeper into the room.

 

                “Pull the other one, Thorin. You look absolutely knackered and downtrodden.”

 

                He glares at her. “Thank you for that. It does me well to know I can count on you to always point out that I look like I’ve been beset by Trolls.”

 

                “Your words, not mine.” She giggles and disappears back into his kitchen.

 

                A reluctant smile tugs at his lips and he follows her in.

 

                He finds Will puttering around in his kitchen, and the smell of fresh-baked bread finally hits him. He feels completely incompetent by this point; _how_ had he not noticed that smell? Was he _that_ unobservant? He would almost bet all the gold in Erebor an assassin could have picked him off in the halls and he wouldn’t have noticed till he was waking up in Mahal’s Forge.

 

                He takes a seat at the small table and contents himself with watching her move around his kitchen like she owns the place. Only Will would be so presumptuous as to enter unbidden into the King’s chambers while he wasn’t there, just to be kind enough to cook him a meal. He is pretty sure he has guards somewhere that are supposed to prevent folk that aren’t royalty from entering. Then again, he’s pretty sure they wouldn’t stand a chance against the Hobbit. She’s wily and unpredictable, and his shins are testament to the hardness of her feet.

 

                Still, he can’t complain. The sweet Hobbit, who has become his dearest friend, is making him _food._

                His friendship with her has been slow in the making. It started on the Carrock, so long ago, and was almost stopped before it started because of his foolishness, but it is real. It is real, and he will do everything in his power to keep it going.

 

                After the Battle, where he’d come so close to dying, where he’d almost lost his nephews, he awoke to find that Will was nowhere to be found. Nor was the Wizard. He’d dispatched every able-bodied Dwarf to search for her, and while they did not find her alive, they also did not find a body, which gave him hope.

 

                Finally, help came in the form of a familiar redheaded she-elf, who informed him she had “seen his small friend in the company of the Wizard and the Skinchanger, heading West.” Presumably toward the Shire.

 

                Unable to leave after her himself—though he wanted to, oh how he wanted to—he’d asked for volunteers from the Company to fetch her back.

 

                Dwalin was the first to step forward. Though, he’d been quite blunt about it.

 

                _“If she doesn’t want to come back, I’ll not force her, Thorin,” he snarls out._

_“I wouldn’t ask you to, friend. Just… Just ask if she will consider it.” The words form a lump in his throat, and he wishes he could get up from this Valar-forsaken cot to reassure his old friend that he means every word, that he will not question Willow Baggins’s decision to stay far away from him, if that is what she chooses._

_Somehow, Dwalin must guess his thoughts, because his fierce glare softens, just a bit._

_“I’ll ask, then.”_

                It is nearly six months before he gets his answer. It is in the form of a pony, hitched up with a cart, upon which sits a large, grumbly warrior of a Dwarf, and a small, familiar form that even from the top of the gate he can recognize.

 

                Now, nearly two years on, he still cannot quite believe his luck.

 

                Something of his mood must show on his face, because there is a tsking noise and she is suddenly thumping him on the nose with one delicate finger.

 

                “None of that majestic brooding now!” she says smartly, spinning around before he can swat ineffectively at her hand.

 

                “’Majestic brooding?’” he stammers out on a startled laugh.

               

                “Oh, I’m sorry. ‘Kingly pouting’ might be more apt.” Will winks cheekily.

 

                “I do not ‘pout’,” he says coolly, though he fights to keep back his smile.

               

                “Sure,” Will replies. “Now, a little bird (he bets it was Balin, it’s _always_ Balin) told me you haven’t eaten since well before mid-morning.” She sets a large, steaming bowl of stew in front of him, along with a fragrant loaf of bread. His barely contains his drool. “Now eat up before you waste away like a delicate flower.”

               

                “I’m not a delicate flower,” he mumbles into a hunk of bread, though it comes out sounding more like “Mmmmaah illit ferll.”

 

                She just raises an eyebrow and smirks at him before tucking into her own stew.

 

                For an evening of Will’s company, he would gladly face Open Court for a lifetime.


	2. Two

The Valar must have accepted Thorin’s errant, silent proclamation as a challenge.

 

It is not that Open Court is scheduled more often than usual. However, the next few sessions are next to disastrous. No one can agree on anything, the complaints are starting to become ludicrous (Seriously, there was a group of Dwarrow arguing over the parentage and ancestry of a prized boar and who actually has rights to its offspring), and to top it all off, at least one noble tries to present his offspring as a potential candidate for courtship. To Thorin.

 

Balin and Dwalin are both necessary in preventing Fili and Kili from laughing outright the first time it happens. The next three times it happens, however, the two Princes are bodily hauled from the room where they collapse in the hallway, shrieking with laughter. Because really they are toddlers. Toddlers who are somehow allowed to carry weaponry. And do Princely things.

 

He wants to say that he finds consolation in the evenings, when he goes home to his presumptuous Burglar who already has supper ready and waiting for him. (He has told no one of his meals with her. If his nephews found out they’d try to join them and just… no.) He wants to say that Will sympathizes with him when he relays the disastrous session, pats him on the shoulder consolingly, and then just lets him eat in peace and maybe bring him dessert.

 

No. She’s as bad as his nephews. She laughs at him. She laughs at him every. Single. Time.

 

He is not amused.

 

This week it is a whole set of siblings, the children of Gurn—named Gurna, Durna, Thurm, Vurm, and the unfortunately named Wurm—all presented like prized horses. He’d half-expected Lord Gurn to offer him a pamphlet with lists of their favorable attributes. Because the nobles keep presenting their eligible children, there is an idea growing in Erebor that its King should be wed.

 

“You know they won’t stop until you are married, Your Majesty,” Balin says with a mocking twinkle in his eyes.

 

“Please, Balin, you know you can skip the title when we are not in Court,” Thorin says. He’s not evading the subject. Not at all.

 

Balin continues as though Thorin hasn’t spoken. “At the very least, if you are courting, they might ease their blatant pursuit. Courtships do tend to last a long time if done in the proper Dwarven fashion.”

 

“Perhaps. But that also means I would have to court one of _them._ ” He is not interested in any of the Dwarrow or Dwarrowdams that have been presented.

 

“Well then find someone else to court,” is Balin’s simple answer. “If you would like, I can take up the services of a Matchmaker. They could weed out any unfavorable suits on your behalf.”

 

The idea has merit if only because it means that he can relay his answers—which will always be “no”—through Balin, who is much more diplomatic than himself. He’s already had to give long-winded, apologetic speeches in front of the entire Open Court. With a Matchmaker involved, it will be announced that all courting suits to the King must be presented to the Matchmaker first. It means he will have to sit down with a Matchmaker and list any likes, dislikes, and requirements he has for a Consort.

 

“Very well, Balin. Find a trustworthy Matchmaker and make the arrangements for a consultation,” he says reluctantly. “If anything this will stop the nonsense in Court.”

 

When he reaches his rooms, he head immediately for his favorite couch and slumps onto it, facedown.

 

“So that’s where Kili gets it from.”

 

He turns his face to the entrance to the kitchen and attempts to glare fiercely at his favorite Hobbit.

 

Today, Will is wearing a dress. She tends to favor trousers and finely tailored jackets and waistcoats, for their practicality. But it seems today she has given into his sister’s urgings and donned a skirt in the Dwarvish fashion.

 

It is longer in the skirt than a Hobbit dress, but it suits her, he decides, even if she does refuse to wear shoes with it. It is green, her favorite color, and it sets nicely against the pale cream of her skin, and accentuates the plump curves her jackets tend to hide. Her mop of coppery curls is pulled back in a messy knot; his fingers itch briefly with the obscene notion of fixing her hair into neat plaits, and the thought almost makes him blush. He stops that thought in its path before it makes its presence known by setting his beard on fire.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grumbles.

 

“The pouting and the slouching on furniture and the mumbling when you don’t want to admit things. Kili _obviously_ gets that from you.” She’s grinning at him and he barely resists the childish urge to press his face into the couch cushions and _ignore her._

“I am not pouting, and even if I were, I would have good reason.”

 

Will comes closer and props her hip against the arm of the couch. “And what possible reason could you have to pout?”

 

“I don’t want to get married.” It _does not_ come out as a plaintive whine.

 

Like every other time he has bemoaned this particular topic, he is treated to Will laughing at him. A loud guffaw followed by merciless chuckles.

 

“Ah, so how many lovely Dwarrow came to pitch woo today?”

 

“Five. Paraded before me like prized stock by their overzealous father. He read from a list. I think they were about to start doing tricks to impress me. It was very theatrical and _awful.”_

 

“Oh my, five? That makes, what, a total of eight courtship offers in a few weeks’ time? Not bad, Your Kingliness.” She grins down at him cheekily, tongue poking out from between charmingly gapped teeth.

 

He grunts in response and bangs his head back down into the cushion. “Nope. Not a king now. I abdicate, effective immediately.” The words are muffled and he doesn’t think she can understand him.

 

“Urgh, don’t be a brat. It doesn’t suit you.” Apparently she did understand. Will pokes him in the side. “Now come and get some supper.”

 

He rolls off the couch and follows her into the kitchen. The sight of the food on the table makes him sigh with contentment.  A simple roast with carrots and potatoes, gravy, and warm bread and butter. As he sits, she is already sitting a plate down in front of him.

 

Thorin groans at the first bite, and does not notice the fierce blush staining his Burglar’s cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long. I was finishing up the spring semester and I spent the last couple of weeks chilling out. Chapter three is in the works and will hopefully be posted soon. Thank you all for the lovely comments! They are very much appreciated!
> 
> I will try to post regularly. My classes are online for the summer, and I have a slightly lighter work-schedule, but I can't promise that I won't lose focus for a bit or just not have the gumption to write. This is a for-fun project, and there will just be times that it doesn't seem like fun. And I have other projects that may take up my free-time instead. Still, I will endeavor not to abandon this.
> 
> <3


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